


Shores

by Iithril



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Geraskier Ship Week 2020, Kissing, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Timeline What Timeline, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:01:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25690993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iithril/pseuds/Iithril
Summary: Jaskier never stops talking and Geralt has a plan to make him silent.Jaskier would describe the waves, the foam, the shore, and with the words leaving him he would build kingdoms of it, entire fairy tales. And Geralt would shake his head in disbelief, but what’s the point of correcting the bard? It wouldn’t stop him from letting the words out.Geralt corrected him anyway. And Jaskier would pout, stay silent for a few blessed seconds, all the words he held fluttering inside of him like butterflies, imploring him to let them out. Then he would ask Geralt the same question, over and over again, and it made a haunting litany.“Why don’t we head to the coast?”They were now heading to the coast.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 15
Kudos: 95
Collections: Geraskier Ship Week 2020





	Shores

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Geraskier Ship Week](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/1461312), with the prompts **Silence** and **The First Time That Geralt and Jaskier...** combined. 
> 
> Many thanks to [bookscorpion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookscorpion) for letting me know about the Ship Week!
> 
> And a million thanks, kudos and endless gratitude to my beta for this fic, [Arboreal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arboreal).
> 
> Warning concerning the fic: there's mention of a background character death (of old age), and Geralt is grieving.

When Geralt had adopted against his will a noisy, slightly whiny and very persistent bard, he had been travelling on the Path. The bard had decided to tag along, pretending he had adopted Geralt for himself, and had started to sing his merits. Which had resulted in more baths and beds available in inns, and less rotten tomatoes, or worse, stones. So why not let the bard follow him? Sure, sometimes he worsened his headaches, with his constant hopping around and verbiage, but still. It was a presence near him, a voice against all those that raged in Geralt’s mind.

How many words could a man let out of his mouth before he ran out? Geralt rarely spoke more than what was barely necessary, except to Roach. He wasn’t illiterate, far from it, but he didn’t need words when he had his senses. Actually, he didn’t have words to describe how the world felt to him. He didn’t know how he could encase with words the raw colours of the trees, the strident chants of the birds and the soft touch of moss in a forest.

But the bard, Jaskier, he could. He wove words like a grandiose tapestry. He was a never ending well, a joyous and carefree spring of words and rhymes. He was swaying behind Roach, plucking chords on his lute, letting out notes, rhythms, poems, and Geralt, deep inside, was worried that one day the well would dry, and that his bard would stop offering him his voice.

So he had figured out that, if he wanted to prevent it, fight against the inevitable, Jaskier needed to stay silent. To let the words rejuvenate, flourish in him before he let them out. Surely it would work. Geralt stayed silent most of the time, and he felt like he could talk for centuries, with all the words he had kept inside him. Sometimes they were standing right at his lips, playing on his tongue, tickling his throat. But he locked them, buried them, and he would just growl. Growling wasn’t words, it wouldn’t count. That way he still had words. The bard could do that too.

The problem was, Jaskier never ever shut the fuck up. Even in his sleep, his back touching Geralt’s, on the ground or in the bed his songs had earned them, he would mutter. Nonsense. Names. Still words escaping him.

Even in the face of death, he still had the strength, or the stupidity, Geralt couldn’t quite tell, to say something. Geralt’s name, actually. Like a talisman, screamed at the top of his lungs – and oh, what a scream. It had a power over Geralt, this scream, every time he heard it, because the bard had sneaked out of the inn to stealthily follow him. Every time his life was threatened. The bard’s words held power, but this word was the strongest. They said you shouldn’t give your name to a witch or a mage, for it was like surrendering your essence to them. Geralt hadn’t sensed any trace of magic on the bard during the months he had shared his life with him, yet it was his very soul that answered Jaskier’s cry of help every time it rang in the air.

That wasn’t good either. He couldn’t deviate from the Path. The Path, and being a Witcher, made him who he was. Life was simple this way. He didn’t need to worry about words, or bards. The simplest solution, after all, was to make the bard silent.

Except it had proved to be quite impossible.

However, a Witcher, and especially Geralt of Rivia, never gave up on an idea as long as there was a chance for him to succeed. Which is why, after long nights of thinking, ruminating and trying to find sleep – sleeping on a problem was said to help – he had decided to bring Jaskier to the coast.

One, because the coast was an everlasting subject of discussion for Jaskier. It had been about five or six years since Geralt had adopted the songbird of a bard that he was, and he had had time to grow sick of the metaphors Jaskier crafted to describe the coast. He had never really seen it before, so as always when it came to Jaskier, his descriptions were loosely inaccurate, just like his retelling of Geralt’s jobs. He would describe the waves, the foam, the shore, and with the words leaving him he would build kingdoms of it, entire fairy tales. And Geralt would shake his head in disbelief, but what’s the point of correcting the bard? It wouldn’t stop him from letting the words out.

Geralt corrected him anyway. And Jaskier would pout, stay silent for a few blessed seconds, all the words he held fluttering inside of him like butterflies, imploring him to let them out. Then he would ask Geralt the same question, over and over again, and it made a haunting litany.

“Why don’t we head to the coast?”

They were now heading to the coast.

  
  


~°~

  
  


Geralt had wanted it to be subtle. Jaskier repeating himself – which occurred mostly when he complained about something, namely Geralt most of the time – meant he couldn’t lose more words. His inward garden would have time to grow again.

He had borne the relentless questions, the constant poking. He didn’t mind, it was good to receive positive attention for once, and Jaskier was actually devoted to him, which made him feel a strange kind of elation.

But he had started, little by little, to take roads that strayed closer to the sea. Asking about possible jobs near the shore. Discreetly – at least as much as he could with the unceasing presence of the bard by his side, at every hour of day and night – he had moved their paths towards the coast. Time was almost meaningless to him, but it certainly wasn’t to Jaskier, so he had to hurry. He had to hurry before the well dried and silence drowned him again. Jaskier was his bulwark against the devastating silence that lay in wait. He was an oasis of genuine love in the arid land that had become the Continent to Witchers, and through his songs, carried by his gorgeous voice, he had started to give life back to the desert. The Continent was slowly becoming more welcoming to Geralt’s kind. And as much as Geralt pretended not to care about the opinion of strangers from whom he worked once in their lifetime, it still felt good.

The landscape around them had slowly morphed. From the grand trees and high peaks covered in snow in winter autumn or filled with the smell of blossoming flowers in spring, they had started to walk through plains. Bushes. Olive trees, and pines, and evergreen oaks. They were moving towards summer too, and the temperature had risen up, the sun caressing their eyelids a little earlier day after day.

Jaskier had once snuggled in Geralt’s arms when dawn had arrived too early for him, fleeing the merciless rays of sunlight that had streamed into the window of their room. He had apologised afterwards, an awkward, mumbled apology that Geralt hadn’t wanted. But the words were trapped inside him. He hadn’t found the key to his well like the bard had. So he had stayed silent, trying to communicate without his mouth opening. Had opened his arms wider every night, careful not to tremble or stiffen when Jaskier would come closer. Careful not to smile or close his arms once the bard, like a fluttering, timid bird, would enter his embrace.

The singing of the birds had changed too. Cicadas had joined the chorus. The plants had become smaller, drier, less exuberant. Some of them were still explosions of colours that inspired Jaskier to write every time he gazed upon them. Some of them were still violent poisons or precious remedies, or both. Geralt had seen it all already, but it felt like he was discovering it anew with Jaskier at his side.

One morning, when Geralt woke up before the bard, laying under the shadow of a stone pine, and scanned their surroundings for any presence or danger, he heard the sea. And once he heard it, the sound never left him. The chant of the waves was his lullaby at night, a choir harmonising with his breath, a gentle presence that masked the straining sounds with its murmurs.

Jaskier was unsuspecting. He wholeheartedly trusted Geralt, had trusted him the very second his eyes had laid on him, and it was unsettling to think about it, sometimes. Witchers were not creatures to be trusted by mere humans. And yet.

He commented on the scenery around them, questioned Geralt about each and every living being, be it a plant or an animal, that they encountered. He sang, made his lute sing for him. Even at the hottest hours of the day, when Roach was straining so much, covered in salt and sweat, that Geralt had to walk by her, his voice still resonated in the air. Even when the winds howled and unleashed their fury, raising storms of dust, when Geralt would bring him closer to Roach to protect him, he would still hum a rhyme, joke about the situation. Jaskier was never silent, and that had become a new constant in Geralt’s troubled life.

On a day when they had walked from dawn till dusk, as they had descended hills only to climb their twin sisters, a breeze had brought the scent Geralt had been waiting for to his nose. Salt, and iodine. And that had become a new travel companion, sitting on Geralt’s tongue, slowly seeping into their clothes and skin. As they went through rainy days, which they took advantage of to wash themselves and their clothes, Geralt could even hear the cries of seagulls carried from far away.

The shore was closer with each step they took.

  
  


~°~

  
  


“Geralt, why are you stopping here? We can still walk a bit before the sun sets completely, you know.”

Jaskier was a bit surprised, obviously. Geralt could sense it, smell it on him. The bard was an open book as always, and words were flying out of the pages.

“Here is a good place to stop. Shadow, tree, water.” Geralt answered as he pointed around.

They were in a valley deeply encased in between hills. A small brook was babbling near them, and a few oaks had managed to extend their foliage enough to offer a little shady spot. Roach was tied to one of the trees, unsaddled. Her flanks were shining with salt, her coat messy. The day had been hot and humid, and the scent of salt and sea had become stronger, to the point even Jaskier had commented about it, and eventually had asked Geralt about the coast again. He had received the traditional answer: silence. If only he was more perceptive, he may have followed Geralt’s example.

Part of Geralt wanted that. He wanted the bard to be more careful with his words, because one day silence would dawn on Geralt and he hated thinking about it. The other part revelled in Jaskier’s voice, basked in the songs, which occupied his mind. Whenever the world felt like too much, too bright, too loud, a soft hum from Jaskier or a few plucked strings would bring Geralt back and ground him. He couldn’t admit it out loud. How could he?

At least Jaskier didn’t question too much his decision of halting their march early. Instead, he took over the direction of operations, babbling constantly, and if it wasn’t a smile that wanted to stretch Geralt’s lips, he didn’t know what it was.

“You know, I’ve never been to the coast, despite Oxenfurt being literally near the coast.” Words Geralt had heard about a thousand times. And wouldn’t hear anymore in about two days. The coast was so close Geralt could basically hear the grains of sand shuffled by the tide if he focused enough.

He wanted to stop now because he knew there was a small village of fishermen two hills away, and he wanted to give Jaskier the best view of it. With the sun rising, the white walls, the steep low walls built by entire generations to allow some agriculture. Fruit and olive trees. The slow and subtle melody of the boats berthed to the docks. He wasn’t good at describing it, couldn’t fathom words to create the perfect picture, and he left that to Jaskier. But he could at least help him a little. Perhaps it would earn him a few seconds of silence.

Geralt grabbed the rations he had prepared in Roach’s saddlebags. They – well, he – had gone on a hunt a few days ago, and they had had a feast, as the meat couldn’t possibly last more than one or two days with the heat. Because a Witcher’s metabolism ran slow, Geralt wasn’t really hungry until he had to use one of his potions, and they hadn’t encountered a monster that required it. But since Jaskier was walking, singing, playing his lute, jumping around Roach and examining every plant and animal his eyes laid on, his belly was rumbling loud enough for him to try and pretend to hide it.

As if he could hide something from Geralt.

He sat heavily on the ground and let Jaskier install himself and his lute in front of him. It always bewildered him how inattentive Jaskier seemed, when he actually wasn’t. His senses were just so… dulled, because he was human. But he observed everything. He had noticed the shortage of the trees, the change of smell of the wind, how the rocks had darkened, how steep the hills had turned. But the twists and turns of the road they walked on hid from his view the truth. And it would stay that way until tomorrow morning.

They ate while Jaskier resumed their day and complained about the deterioration of his clothes. The sun slowly set down and crashed its course between hills, burning the sky and lighting the stars up. There wasn’t a cloud in sight, and the air was warm enough for them not to need additional heat, but Jaskier still lay down close to Geralt.

“And I swear, if it’s that hot tomorrow, we’ll stop at noon to sleep, Geralt! I don’t know how you sleep like a rock, like you always do, on such unwelcoming beds. I mean, the ground? What could possibly worse than the ground? Wait, no, don’t answer that, never mind. For once, I’m better left in ignorance.”

Jaskier moved and wriggled, probably to find a more comfortable position. He had once, with all the seriousness in the world, asked Geralt if he could sleep on him, as he would be more comfortable and warmer than the ground – it had been pouring that night and they were both drenched. A look had sufficed to deter him, but it wasn’t unlikely that he would ask again.

He smelt like sweat, and dust, and salt. And like honey, and citrus, his natural scents. A bit like lavender, a faint fragrance from the soap he used. Said that lavender soothed, so it would soothe him, and perhaps Geralt. Help him sleep better. He had rubbed lavender oil on Geralt’s temples, on a day the strain had been too much for his enhanced senses. Geralt didn’t know to this day if it was the lavender, or the closeness and the tender care of the bard that had helped him going through.

“Anyway, I guess I’ll stop talking, and I’ll try to sleep and ignore the muffled cries of pain of my strained muscles, as usual.”

Jaskier dramatically covered his body with his vest and turned his back to Geralt. Finally, he whispered, like every night, “Good night, Geralt.”

Geralt unscrupulously took advantage of the fact the bard couldn’t see him to finally let a smile bloom on his face, and he grumbled back, sleep already calling him.

“Good night, Jaskier.”

  
  


~°~

  
  


Geralt had awoken a bit before dawn, as the sky turned pink and the stars faded. Jaskier was against him, huddled and, at last, silent. Geralt took a moment to admire the youth still vibrant on his face, the softness of his skin despite the hours under the sun. The silkiness of his hair. The calluses on his hands. The little scars, pinkish on his tanned skin, from all the times he had hurt himself by being careless. The circles under his eyes, the first wrinkles on the corner of his lips.

The bard was beautiful, more than Geralt could ever be, and he had chosen to follow the Witcher on the roads, to throw away a life of luxury in a warmed castle with a large bed, good meals and a wife to take care of him. How foolish. How unbelievable. How lucky Geralt was to have him.

Jaskier tensed and Geralt immediately turned away and jumped on his feet, covering Jaskier’s body with his shadow. Jaskier opened a wary eye, glanced at the tall silhouette hovering over him, and sighed as he hid his face into his hands.

“Good morning, Geralt. Radiant as usual, I see,” he grumbled from behind his fingers, his voice still hoarse from sleep.

He stretched like a cat, and Geralt refrained from staring too much. Instead, he grabbed the saddlebags that had served him as a pillow and attached them back to Roach’s saddle. He mumbled something that could pass for a good morning to Jaskier, who was up on his feet and dusting his clothes with a sigh.

“The air is so fresh at this time of the day… It could almost convince me it’s a decent time to wake me up. Almost.”

Jaskier took his lute and put it back on his shoulder, swaying a little doing so. He walked carefully to Roach, and was welcomed with a nicker and a vigorous head butt.

“Yeah, Roach, me too. My legs hurt like hell with all those slopes to climb and descend.”

Jaskier easily lifted the saddle and buckled the girth with the ease given by habit. In perfect coordination with Geralt, he adjusted the saddlebags and attached the one he had used as a pillow for the night. He retreated to let Geralt put the bridle on, as Roach was mischievous enough not to let the bard do it. He pulled down the stirrups, checked the buckles, managed to shorten the girth by one hole. Roach liked to puff up right before being saddled.

Once it was all done, Roach harnessed and all their belongings gathered on either of their backs, Jaskier cast a last look at the tree that had sheltered them and followed Geralt. Onward, to the coast, though he didn’t know that yet.

The singing of the seagulls were strong enough to be heard easily, and less than a few minutes after they had departed, Jaskier finally noticed it.

“It reminds me of Oxenfurt… The birds were so loud in the town, I had to find a quiet place deep within the school to compose.”

With that, he sighed, and with a swift movement, brought his lute in front of him and started to play, harmonising with the distant sounds from the sea. Soon enough, he started to hum, a few words at a time, trying tentatively rhymes and verses. Letting words out in the wild, carried away by the wind and never to return.

They climbed a rather abrupt slope, Geralt leaning forward on Roach’s back to help her as much as he could. Turns were still hiding the fishermen's hamlet, but the landscape was mesmerising. Far in the distance, too far for Jaskier’s human eyes, the sea was glittering with the rising sun. Around them, the relentless obstinacy of humanity laid its treasures for their eyes. Tiny but sturdy terraces built with thousands of stones with dark and red hues. Olive trees regularly planted, their trunks gnarled and twisted but strong. There was so little vegetation apart from those trees, braving the wind and the merciless sun. Sea fennel, prickly pear, thyme, helichrysum.

They walked for about an hour, the sun lazily rising in the sky and igniting it with shimmering reds and oranges. Geralt decided to walk next to Roach, to reduce her strain. After they had passed the turns, a blow of wind welcomed them, and Geralt slowed down on purpose to let Jaskier walk closer, and have the occasion to witness his reaction.

The village was hidden in a narrow cove. Houses had grown like mushrooms, except they were all white. A blinding, exquisite white, which offered a delightful contrast with the doors and shutters, painted with a myriad of vibrant colours. The roads were paved with rounded dark stones, a maze of paths wandering around the houses and all leading to the sea.

And what a sea! The beach seemed calm, gently lapped by the waves, grains of sands grinding against each other. Foam was glittering under the rough caress of the wind at the surface, and if near the village the waters were an inviting vivid azure, a few meters away from land, it morphed into a deep, dark and cold blue. Geralt spotted fish swimming under the surface, their scales a rainbow to his eyes. A few boats were docked, their sails folded, and the wind playfully rang the ropes against the mast and the hull. 

It was a nice, small, and concealed hamlet. Geralt knew someone there, someone who had always welcomed him, a bit coldly for sure, but he had experienced worse, and her quiet acceptance had been more than what he had been expecting the first time his feet had led him here.

Roach halted as he gently pulled on the reins. Geralt turned to face Jaskier, who had frozen, his hands still on the cords of his instrument. The look in his eyes made Geralt’s heart ache and flutter at the same time. It held everything Geralt had ever wanted. It was overflowing with pure, genuine joy and wonder at the sight of the village, and the smile that bloomed on the bard’s lips was a gift from the gods. He made a few, tentative steps, gasped as he recognised the sea behind the houses, the boats and the waves, then frantically covered the distance between Geralt and him and jumped on him with a shout, hugging him tight.

Geralt blinked a few times as his body registered the sudden closeness of Jaskier, his lean, strong arms around his neck and his smile, this gift, unwavering and bright. He let go of Roach’s reins, knowing she wouldn’t move, and ever so slowly, afraid of breaking Jaskier’s good spirit, he hugged the bard, which earned him a squeal and a tightening of the embrace. He gulped as Jaskier crossed his ankles behind Geralt’s back, suddenly very aware he was  _ hugging Jaskier _ . Well, more that Jaskier was hugging him like his life depended on it. Good thing he had strong bones, for the bard’s clutch was tight.

Geralt didn’t exactly know how to carry on without turning this amazing moment into something awkward, so he stayed still as Jaskier hid his face into the crook of his neck, murmuring  _ thank you _ and  _ I can’t believe it _ over and over. Eventually, the bard let go by himself, uncrossed his ankles, much to Geralt’s regret, and turned to the hamlet again, his mouth wide open.

“Geralt! You brought us to the coast, you sneaky Witcher!”

Jaskier was beaming, vibrating with joy, eager to walk forward. They probably wouldn’t reach the shore before nightfall, for the bends in the road were misleading and made the road seem shorter than it was. Geralt explained it to the bard, who pouted a bit but quickly switched back to jumping around, swaying with his lute and singing about the sea. And indeed, he had the words to paint it properly, now that the sight was laying openly before his eyes.

Geralt regretted for a second his idea, as so many words were leaving Jaskier’s mouth while they walked, but the look on his face at the very moment he had spotted the hamlet was worth them all. And the feeling of Jaskier’s arms around him, the glint in his eyes as he had thanked the Witcher over and over again made him weak, a feeling he thought he could never experience again.

It was a good thing Roach knew where they were headed, because Geralt wasn’t really focused on anything but the silhouette of the bard skittering around him.

They stopped as the sun was at its highest point in the sky, Jaskier panting with the heat. They found an olive tree with a wide foliage, wide enough to protect the three of them. Geralt unsaddled Roach again, and let Jaskier search for the rations. They ate slowly, in silence, which was unusual. The way Jaskier looked at him, with side-eyed glances and averting his gaze as soon as Geralt tried to make eye contact, made Geralt uneasy no matter how many times he tried to reassure himself. However, his constant fiddling with his clothes wasn’t new. Geralt didn’t know how he could bear the heat with so much clothing on, but it was the bard’s problem, not his.

Once they had finished their meal and gulped down a bit of fresh water drawn from the stream they had slept next to, Geralt went to water Roach, who thanked him with a nicker. Geralt could tell she liked where they were going as much as him, and he whispered a few words as he groomed her energetically.

“You’ve never been to Izsa’s house, have you? We’re going there. The last Roach liked it a lot, so I hope you’ll enjoy it. And then I’m going to take Jaskier to the sea. You’ll guard the house like always, hm?”

“Are you murmuring some sweet nothings to Roach, Geralt?” Jaskier asked mischievously, laying languid on the ground near the trunk of the tree.

He received a grumble for an answer, but that didn’t deter him.

“Oh, come on, we all know she’s your sweetheart. Keeping you company at night, watching you sleep, bearing your insufferable presence and your considerable weight all day long.”

Roach nickered, and Geralt raised an eyebrow at her. She was supporting the bard, now? What was it, a coalition against him?

“Don’t think about it too much, Geralt. I’m sure you weigh a perfectly normal amount for someone fighting monsters for a living. Although I always thought Witchers ate much more than that until I met you.”

Jaskier's voice had turned gentle and the bard patted the ground next to him with a smile. Geralt glanced at Roach, who glanced back at him, as if to say  _ what are you waiting for? _ and he moved closer to Jaskier, lay next to him cautiously and, like a reflex he didn’t know he had developed until then, he opened his arms and let the bard snuggle in with a content sigh.

They were supposed to wait a few hours for the sun to descend and the heat to become bearable again, and even though Geralt wanted to check and polish his swords and armour in case a job was awaiting him in the hamlet, he complied with Jaskier’s wish to have a nap. He lost himself and the notion of time as he contemplated the bard. His features, brightened by joy. His arms, that held a strength Geralt had underestimated. The soft, short hair of the back of his neck, dancing with the soft breeze.

Geralt didn’t sleep. He couldn’t, for some strange reason. Instead, he dived deep down into a meditative state, his heart slowed down to the minimum, beating occasionally, his eyes closed. He followed the rhythm of Jaskier’s breath, opening his senses to the proximity of the shore. He could hear human activity in the village, which was a good sign. He picked up the chants of seagulls, the clamour of the sails of the boats as they resisted and clapped in the wind. Jaskier stayed motionless in his arms, soft and pliant, trusting the Witcher to protect him.

Something was hiding in Geralt’s heart, but he couldn’t pinpoint what it was. Every time he tried to dwell on it, it would dodge his attention, slither away, and he gave up. It would make itself known soon enough. For now, he wanted to be in the right mindset to fully enjoy Jaskier’s presence.

When the bard stirred and opened a timid eye, Geralt let himself come back at the surface, familiarising himself with their surroundings again, and he opened his arms but stayed on the ground for a second. When his eyes opened again, he caught Jaskier looking at him with a strange expression, and for a split second a foreign scent titillated his nose. It smelt like sunflowers and pine, like hot nights in summer, and it vanished so quickly Geralt doubted he ever smelt it. When he opened his eyes again, Jaskier was standing on his feet, offering a hand but looking away.

He grabbed the bard’s hand and stood up. Jaskier let go instantly and went to take his lute. Geralt squinted, a bit nervous, but there was only so much he could do for now. He prepared Roach, strapped his swords to his back – a Witcher was never too careful, and Geralt was more afraid of what humans could do than monsters – and they went forth. Jaskier started humming again, resuming his swaying walk, and Geralt’s worries settled down a bit. Perhaps he was misreading it and Jaskier was just happy and impatient being near the coast. Humans were weird, and Jaskier was weird even among humans.

They walked till the stars started to illuminate the night sky. The sun had sunk behind the mountains that now stood to their back, offering them a blaze of reds and pinks that Jaskier had enjoyed describing as elaborately as possible. They halted near a low wall, in a row of olive trees, and ate in silence, before lying down next to each other and wishing each other good night like they always did.

Later, in the dark of night, Geralt awoke. He didn’t know what had brought him back to consciousness, so he stayed still, Jaskier softly breathing in his arms. Something was off. After a few seconds, he eliminated the sounds of cicadas, the murmur of the sea and the hamlet, and found a strange, irregular noise, like a high-pitched breathing. It took him a few more seconds to identify it was the bard making that strange sound.

Was he in the middle of a dream? He wasn’t moving at all, so it was unlikely, but his breathing pattern was off. He wasn’t running a fever or smelling different from usual – honey and citrus and lavender – which confused Geralt. But it sounded like he had forgotten how to breathe regularly, which was worrisome.

“Jaskier?” he grumbled softly, and he braced for any reaction, but nothing happened in the first few seconds. Then, Jaskier sighed, a deep, trembling sigh, and his hands searched, found and held tight Geralt’s hands, their fingers interlaced. He was awake too, Geralt could hear his eyelids fluttering, but he stayed silent. Perhaps it was a bad dream, after all. Geralt gave a little nudge and waited till the bard fell asleep again before drifting off too.

Something strange was happening.

  
  


~°~

  
  


Like the day before, Geralt woke up first, right before the sun started to peak over the horizon. He carefully untangled his limbs with Jaskier’s and got up. The bard deserved some additional rest.

He prepared Roach but left her unsaddled, then strapped his swords and went searching for a clear point of view on the village. Boats were departing, their sails tense by the wind, leaving a white trail of foam behind them. He was scanning to try and spot people when he heard his name. Jaskier was calling him.

He jumped down the wall he had climbed and ran as fast as he could towards the bard’s voice, fear clutching at his heart and twisting his stomach. When he arrived at full speed, Jaskier brightened up immediately, but Geralt caught a whiff of his fear.

“I’m sorry, I… I just woke up and I didn’t know where you were, and your swords were missing so I…” Jaskier was stammering, which almost never happened to him. He regained his composure as Geralt patted his shoulder with an understanding look, and readied to depart.

Today was the day they arrived at the hamlet.

  
  


~°~

  
  


The slope right before the village was steep, and Geralt was walking carefully next to Roach, whose hooves tended to slide on the rounded stones of the path. The houses were lit up in orange tones by the morning sun, and Jaskier had started to sing his infamous ballad. Geralt spotted a few heads peering out their windows, and when they arrived at the main gate of the walls encircling the village, there was someone waiting for them.

It was a short old man, wrinkled but with a noble stance. His hair was as white as Geralt’s but his hands weren’t even trembling as he silently witnessed the bard and his Witcher coming closer. He wore traditional fisherman clothes, colours faded by the salt and the water, but the green of his eyes glinted as he smiled at them.

“Welcome, White Wolf. It’s been a long time since you granted us a visit,” he intoned, and Geralt finally recognised who was standing in front of him. The man was but a child the last time Geralt came, and he had shown the Witcher how to repair a fishing net on an afternoon, unafraid and proud to teach such a dreaded man something he didn’t know.

Jaskier fell silent, as he usually announced who Geralt was before they entered the town. He looked at the two men facing each other and put his lute back, waiting for the conversation to unfurl. Geralt smiled at him discreetly to reassure him, before he spoke.

“Thank you for coming and greeting me, my friend.” The old man gave him a gentle smile at those words, and Geralt continued. “I assume there’s nothing to be done for a Witcher here?”

The fisherman shook his head.

“Nothing but clear waters and the inevitable tempests since the last time you came. One of your brothers visited twenty years ago and roamed the shores, so he must have taken care of whatever was hiding there.”

Part of Geralt was a bit saddened by the fact there was no monster to be slain, as he had prepared everything he could need for this eventuality, but the rest of him was thrilled by the idea of spending a few days near the sea without anything to do but enjoy Jaskier and the shore.

“I’ll stay for a few days, then. Is Izsa…” Geralt let his voice die when the old man shook his head again, this time with a certain sadness on his features.

“She left us three years ago. Lost at sea, like she always said she would.” The fisherman let out a sigh.

“But her house is still standing, White Wolf, and she wrote a letter saying that if you ever came back, you shall have it.”

Geralt’s heart ached and he couldn’t hide fast enough the surprise and pain on his face. He knew Izsa was getting older, but damn it, humans were getting old too fast for him. And the fact she had thought of him, despite him visiting more than fifty or sixty years ago, was heartwarming. She had been one of the first to welcome him and open her door when he had strayed near the hamlet for the first time. She was an outcast too, suspected of witchcraft, but all Geralt had seen was a kind woman who hadn’t let the hate turn her bitter and angry. She had a bit of magic, but it was so faint she was barely able to soothe the pain of wounds and cool down fevers. Yet she had devoted her life to helping others, whoever she deemed needing her help.

“Thank you, my friend,” Geralt said, and he couldn’t mean the words more. Slowly, careful not to perform it wrong, he executed the salute of the fishermen, and was rewarded by a smile illuminating the old man’s face before he returned the gesture. Geralt grabbed Roach’s reins and started walking away, but he heard the old man mumbling something to Jaskier.

“Take care of him, bard. He’s kind of heart.”

He couldn’t pinpoint what Jaskier answered, but he soon heard his footsteps behind him, and he started questioning Geralt, his eyes curious.

“You knew him, Geralt? And you’ve been here before?”

“Yeah. He was a little child the last time I came.” Geralt could still see the kid helping him all day with the fishing net and complimenting him. The sea had taken a toll on him, but his eyes hadn’t lost their shine to time.

“And Izsa? An old acquaintance of yours, I presume?”

Was it bitterness in Jaskier’s voice? Or was he imagining things?

“Nothing like your court acquaintances, Jaskier.” The bard let out an indignant exclamation, but Geralt continued, unflappable. “She had been cast away by the fishermen because she had a bit of magic. She welcomed me. Healed my wounds, gave me time and space.”

“Oh,” Jaskier said, seemingly regretting his words. “My apologies. May she rest in peace.”

Geralt glanced at him, and felt a pang of pain when he saw and smelt the bard’s sorrow. He hadn’t planned on ruining his good spirit like that, but apparently he wasn’t good at keeping his bard happy for long.

They stayed silent, and even though Geralt had wished and prayed for silence, it was one of the worst he had ever endured. 

The road was long to Izsa’s house, which was deeply hidden in a cove, close to what looked like the end of the world. Rocks carved by water and wind into sharp needles and whimsical forms. So little vegetation, except junipers twisted by the wind. And the sea furiously attacking the cliff, relentlessly throwing waves at it. The air was salted and colder, and it worsened when Jaskier began playing something on his lute. Something sad and slow and full of sorrow.

Izsa wouldn’t have wanted that. She had told Geralt that one day he would find someone that would accept him like he was and help him become better. She had told him he would have to take care of that person, bring them joy and protect them. He was doing a terrible job with Jaskier.

Eventually, after following a sinuous trail and helping Roach descend in between rocks, they arrived at the house, and silence dawned on them again.

The house was still standing. The white paint had faded a bit, and it was more than likely that the roof had leaks given its poor state. But there still was the wooden stake Izsa had planted to tie Roach to. The shore was covered in coloured stones, even more than what Geralt remembered. He knew some of those stones were the ones he had brought back from deep in the sea. She liked to collect stones – whatever the shape, the colour or the pattern, she loved them all and would arrange them for days to create figures and shapes that the sea would take away.

Geralt went to tie Roach, who neighed happily. The door creaked when he opened it, but it was still strong. The inside was sparse, and it was clear nobody had come after Izsa’s death. A ray of sunshine entered by the window once Geralt had opened it, and something shined on the table in the centre of the room. Geralt walked closer and let out a strangled, silent cry.

It was a wolf. A ferocious wolf, teeth all out, made of hundreds of small stones, deep in shade of greys and whites. It still held Izsa’s perfume, salt and tenderness. It was magnificent, and Geralt realised he hurt more than he thought, as he found himself paralysed in front of the table, his hands curled and his body shaking.

“Oh, Geralt.” 

Jaskier appeared behind him, gently embraced him, and for once Geralt let him. He let the pain wash over him, stiff in the bard’s embrace. He lost track of time, and almost forgot to breath, but the bard never stopped passing his hands on Geralt’s back, a feather-like touch that held him back, prevented him from losing himself in the silent void.

When he came back to his senses, Jaskier let go and took a few steps back. Tears had left a shimmering trail on his cheeks, but his smile was radiant and giving and loving and it mended a bit of Geralt’s heart. Izsa had told him he needed to take care of the bard, and she had given him everything she had ever owned and loved. Now it was his turn to be good, to be better.

“Thank you, Jaskier.” He offered a smile to the bard. It was still sad, but he did his best to make it carry the thankfulness he felt.

“Let’s go swimming, hm?”

He grinned as Jaskier looked at him, a bit surprised by the proposition. It was fine, Geralt thought inwardly. He could do this. Izsa would have loved to see them both.

He walked outside and started stripping. Jaskier appeared in the doorway, and his bewilderment was so visible Geralt let out a laugh.

“What? You’ve bathed me before, don’t tell me you’re shy now.”

  
  


“Well no, of course. I mean, no, this is not… I didn’t want to…” It was the second time in a few days Jaskier was losing his words, but this time the pink on his cheeks and the racing of his heart weren’t induced by fear. Interesting.

“You better start taking your clothes off too or I’ll throw you in the sea, fancy vest or not,” Geralt threatened jokingly, and it seemed like the right words to say, because Jaskier gushed out of the house with a strident  _ no! _ and started undressing as well.

Once all his clothes formed a pile on the ground, Geralt walked gingerly to the shore. The rounded pebbles were a bit slippery, and he hissed when the waves lapped at his feet. Despite the sun shining strong and warm, the water was cold.

“Hey, Geralt, wait for me!”

The bard basically ran to rejoin him, and Geralt was afraid he would slip and fall on the stones, but years of walking behind Roach and sneaking up on Geralt when he was on a monster hunt had seemingly given him good reflexes, for he made it to Geralt without tripping once.

“ _ Ah _ ! It’s  _ cold _ , Geralt!”

They were only ankle deep and Jaskier was jumping from one foot to another, letting out high pitched screams every time a wave touched him on the leg. Perfectly impassive, Geralt started walking forward, and soon the water reached his knees, then his belly. He waited for Jaskier, offering a hand, and the bard clung at it like he was about to drown.

“It seems like now – fuck, Geralt, I won’t be able to have kids because of you –- now is a good time to inform you that I’ve never swum in the sea before.”

Well, perhaps he was about to drown. Geralt pulled on his hands to bring him closer, which earned him shrieks and curses and a wriggling bard in his arms.

“Stop moving Jaskier, I’m holding you.”

It was pointless, and the bard only froze when Geralt lowered his arms enough to almost submerge him entirely. He looked at Geralt with a panicked look, and Geralt grinned at him, walking forward again, ignoring Jaskier’s protestations and threats.

When he was far enough he couldn’t touch the ground anymore, he maintained the both of them at the surface with lazy strokes of his legs and gave the bard time to get used to the water temperature. He genuinely laughed when Jaskier almost fell out of his embrace and clung desperately at his neck, promising him he would make him pay.

“I’ve got you, you can relax.”

“You don’t get anything, Geralt, I just told you I don’t know how to swim when there are waves and–” the bard wiggled his feet out of the water, “algae or whatever, I swear to Melitele I touched something weird down there.”

“Do you trust me, Jaskier?” Geralt asked, raising an eyebrow. He didn’t want to give Jaskier the impression he was in danger, for he wasn’t at all.

“Of course I trust you Geralt, come on!”

The bard was about to say something else, probably protest against the fact he was at sea, in a foreign environment, which was nonsense because he had followed Geralt to some places that were much more dangerous. To cut it off, maintain the words inside of him, fluttering birds that would be trapped as soon as he was underwater, Geralt dived.

He dived with Jaskier in his arms, and suddenly the sounds of the surface, the echo of the waves crashing against the rocks, the distant cries of seagulls and the rustle of the trees, everything faded to a gentle whisper. Geralt dived and let go of enough air to touch the ground, and he opened his eyes.

Everything was a bit blurred, but in a matter of seconds he identified Jaskier’s form in front of him, holding him with his mouth shut and his eyelids closed with a frown. His body seemed frail under the sea, fragments of pale skin exposed to Geralt’s eyes for the first time. The line of his tan was pretty clear. His hair was swaying with the water currents, illuminated by the sun that still pierced through, in glorious golden and brown and red. He looked like the sirens he loved to sing about, even though they didn’t exist. Not like that, at least.

Geralt stayed still, feet planted in the sand ground, until Jaskier started to relax. He didn’t open his eyes immediately, passing his hand over Geralt’s body and never letting go completely. He sent a foot searching for ground to stand on, and let out a droplet of bubbles that danced eagerly to the surface when he found it. It was only once both his feet were in the sand, his hands interlaced with Geralt’s, that he opened his eyes.

Even this close to the shore, there was already so much to see. Small fishes, ranging from the size of a finger to a good portion of an arm, were swimming all around them, their scales reflecting the sunlight with flashes of colours. Sponges had grown in between rocks, and there were, like Jaskier had feared, algae, with vivid greens and hypnotising undulations and fanciful shapes.

Another group of bubbles escaped Jaskier’s lips when he opened his mouth with wonder. His heart beat faster, even faster, and he pointed around excitedly, even though Geralt had already seen it all. He didn’t let go of Geralt’s hand, and instead tugged on it to make him understand he wanted to move and see the sponges up close.

Geralt complied, and he lazily swam along. Jaskier was swimming awkardly, with stiff and a bit silly movements, but at least he was moving. Given how high his heartbeat was, they would need to surface again soon, but Jaskier took his time to swim around the sponges, a smile to his ears.

Geralt could swear the water tasted like sunflower and pine again, on top of the bitter salt, and his heart clenched in worry.

He followed Jaskier when he swam up, to the surface, and inhaled deeply when they reached the air. Jaskier’s eyes were glittering, and he coughed a bit and spat a bit of water with a wince, before anchoring himself to Geralt’s neck again, bringing his face close enough that they shared a breath.

“Is there more to see? Show me, Geralt, please!”

Those were words that could escape from his lips. Geralt could show him. He still had a place he wanted to bring Jaskier, after all. He ignored the fluttering of his heart and the strange elation that was taking possession of him and dived again, easily bringing the bard with him.

They swam underwater, Jaskier following Geralt’s lead, taking air at the surface when they needed it. Little by little, Jaskier dared to swim further from Geralt, straying a bit in every direction. He looked like he wanted to remember everything, to carve what he was seeing into his memories, and he was swimming around with the excitement of a child, which made Geralt smile fondly.

Geralt wasn’t looking around. He was admiring Jaskier, mesmerised. He was taking everything in, every little detail. The way Jaskier curled his legs when he wanted to observe something and stay still. The subtle movements of the muscles on his back when he was swimming. The joy on his face, unrestrained. He had never seen, for all the years he had spent with him on the Path, Jaskier being openly joyful like this.

And he couldn’t talk, but he made up for that quickly. He gestured frenetically, tugged at him, made faces that were so expressive they made Geralt laugh. He even played, turning around Geralt, passing under him and letting out bubbles to tickle him, caressing his arms to draw the Witcher’s attention to yet another fish.

They lost sight of the house and Roach, and the waves grew bigger, bolder, the sea floor deeper, the water colder. Jaskier didn’t show any sign of fatigue, his heartbeat at a normal rate, his eyes a bit reddened by the salt. Geralt still helped him, telling him to hold his arms, and moving them forward faster. He wanted to find the place before the sun set, so they had little time to lose.

He finally recognised the shore he had been searching for. It was exactly like he remembered. Glistening, white sand, soft under their feet. And right in front of the narrow beach the sand made, a wall of stone of a few meters, forming a spur.

He emerged out of the waters and Jaskier followed silently without missing a beat. It wasn’t anything like the silence that had dawned on them when they had walked to Izsa’s house. It was a giggly, joyful, curious silence, and he was still sharing so much information with Geralt they didn’t need words. When Geralt pointed at the cliff, Jaskier didn’t protest nor question it, he started climbing. The wind was roaring beyond the beach, but couldn’t reach them, as they were protected by the cliffs that surrounded them.

Yet as soon as they both reached the top of the spur, naked and wet, the wind attacked them furiously, making their hair flutter in every direction. Jaskier walked closer to Geralt and made him tilt his head until his hands found the ribbon that held his hair. With gentle touches and pulls, he took it off and tied it to his wrist with a wink. His hand found Geralt’s and rested there.

Geralt moved to the tip of the spur. Under it, waves and foam and salt, and the sea floor was deep enough it was unlikely he could touch it even with such a high plunge. He turned to Jaskier and pointed down, and the bard made a sceptical face, like he wasn’t sure it was a good idea. But he walked to the edge, trusting his Witcher wholeheartedly. They stayed there for a second, their bodies pressed together, sharing their warmth against the wind. Salt had dried on Jaskier’s forehead, leaving a white trail, and Geralt rubbed it with his thumb without thinking about it.

The bard leaned in his touch, his heart racing again, his eyes closed, and the scent of sunflower and pine became strong enough Geralt could smell it even with the wind taking it away. Slightly afraid he had done something wrong, afraid he had overstepped their boundaries, Geralt tried to walk away, take a step back, forgetting for a split second where he stood.

His foot met the void and he felt himself falling. 

Jaskier followed his movement, their hands still locked together, and Geralt pulled him closer, hiding him in his arms and bracing for the impact. Diving head and back first was painful, he knew because he had tried before, and with Jaskier’s weight added to his own, they would only fall faster. 

For a moment, he saw the world upside down, the sky becoming the sea, blue meeting blue at the horizon and the sun in between. He wished Jaskier could see it, as he surely would have a nice metaphor to describe it, but he was better off protected by Geralt’s body. 

He hit the water hard enough to push the air out of his lungs and managed to shut his mouth before he swallowed anything. He opened his eyes, surrounded by thousands of shimmering little air bubbles, and met Jaskier’s eyes. The bard was floating in front of him like an apparition, his hair a gleaming halo around his head, a hand opened and reaching in Geralt’s direction. 

Before Geralt could move, reactions slowed from lack of air, Jaskier swam closer, passed his hands around his neck and his ankle behind his back. Used him as support to bring his whole body against Geralt’s. And kissed him.

It tasted like salt, obviously. It tasted like Jaskier, honey and citrus, and it tasted like this new scent Geralt had picked up a few times already, sunflower and pine, and it was  _ so good _ . It was giving and taking, demanding and hungry, and Geralt wanted more. He wanted time to hold its course so he could appreciate and realise what was happening, but he wasn’t powerful enough to do that. His lungs screamed at him, desperate for air, and he started swimming towards the surface, Jaskier still so close to him, their lips touching and  _ oh _ their tongues too.

When they finally reached the surface, they both broke the kiss to inhale, then their lips crashed against each other, and Geralt didn’t care that the water was cold because he wasn’t. A fire was running through his veins, and it had nothing to do with the pain in his back. It was a very different type of fire, consuming his whole body and soul, and all he wanted was more.

He revelled in the kiss, sighed as Jaskier pulled his hands through his hair coated by salt, smiled when he felt the bard vibrating just like he was when his own hands roamed in Jaskier’s back. He had earned silence, and it was the sweetest silence he could have dreamt of, even though thunder was rumbling in his ears, following the rhythm of his heart. And the bard was talking, whispering, crying and sighing all at once, one word, always the same, and this word could escape his lips for now because it came to Geralt’s and it made him ache and tremble and hunger, and it was his name and Jaskier wouldn’t forget his name, never.

When they stopped, at unison once again, Geralt pulled Jaskier higher on his hips to let his legs kick and maintain them at the surface, and he closed his eyes as the bard traced the shape of his face languidly, giving him feather kisses on the forehead, on the cheeks, on his hair, fucking everywhere. He moaned and groaned and did his best to bring them to the shore again, at least to a place where he could stand on his two feet and devote all his attention to Jaskier like he wanted to so desperately.

However, when he reached the beach and touched sand under his feet, enough to stabilise him and support Jaskier by himself instead of relying on the water, Jaskier stopped moving and pressed his forehead against Geralt’s with a frown, his eyes serious. Worry and fear threatened to submerge Geralt, who stayed unmoving, waiting for a reaction.

“Geralt?” the bard finally asked, his voice trembling with so many emotions Geralt couldn’t identify.

“Yes?”

“Never scare me like that again.”

The words were of steel, more than a threat, and Geralt shivered at the order, a pleasant tingle creeping up his spine. He lost his voice, emotion strangling him, overwhelmingly relieved that Jaskier wasn’t mad at him for kissing him, only for falling, which was understandable. He only managed to nod, his eyes lost in yet another blue, and he felt tears coming at his eyes, something that hadn’t happened to him since he had survived the trials. He couldn’t talk, didn’t want to, for fear of shattering this precious moment, of lifting the spell or discovering it was but a dream. He was cold and burning, his head was turning and he wanted to kiss Jaskier again.

Jaskier kissed him and he returned the kiss and Jaskier gave him more and he wanted _even_ _more_. And Jaskier merrily complied.

~°~

  
  


The night had fallen and the sea birds were silent. Geralt had brought Jaskier back to Izsa’s house, where they had laid down under the sun to dry, tangled together, a mess of limbs and hair and roaming hands. They had slept a bit, unafraid and content, and had put their clothes back on, not for modesty but because it had become a bit too cold once the sun had vanished behind the mountains. 

They reluctantly let go of each other long enough for Geralt to feed Roach and lengthen her tether, and they crashed together again in the house, taming their bodies, and Jaskier was still silent except for Geralt’s name, repeated like a prayer or a spell. 

They slept for the night, Geralt’s swords at hand if necessary, but nothing came in the darkness and Geralt woke up first when the first rays of sun entered by the window.

He stayed put, letting the events of the day before unwind and trying to make sense of it all. His heart was still dancing in his chest, hurting in this strange and good way he had started to love. Jaskier was against him as always, but not turning his back to Geralt. No, this time, he was facing him, one leg thrown behind them both, his arms in between them and his hands resting on Geralt’s chest. He was breathing softly, still deeply asleep, his hair full of salt and a glorious mess. His lips were parched and a bit swollen, and Geralt couldn’t tell if it was because of the salt and sea or all the kisses they had exchanged, devouring each other, saying all that they couldn’t say.

“Jaskier?” he whispered, gently nudging the bard and letting his hands caress Jaskier’s back, savouring the softness of the skin he had dreamt of touching and the muscles beneath them, strong and pliant, which were so beautiful in action.

Jaskier opened a tired eye and smiled drowsily at Geralt, high on sleep. He let his hands close behind Geralt’s head and kissed him, and it held all the love in the world, it tasted like sunflowers and pine and love.

“I hope you have a very good reason to wake me up so early, Geralt. Not that I don’t like kissing you, not at all, I could do that all day, but I had the fear of my life yesterday, I saw your death and mine happening and then I had quite a lot of emotions to process.” Jaskier stopped, turned enough to look at Geralt with both eyes and said with a deeper voice, hoarse from sleep and something else. “All this to say, you better have something really good for me or you’ll regret it.”

He ended his sentence with another kiss, hungrier than the first one, and Geralt’s spine tingled again. He got up on one elbow and let the bard climb him like a tree and hold him, then stood up. With little steps, he walked outside, and smiled when he heard Jaskier sigh in awe.

The beach covered in pebbles was glimmering under the light. The hundreds of pebbles gathered by Izsa, with radiant colours and exotic patterns, were all shining and it made a dancing rainbow on the cliffs around them. Further away, the sea was set ablaze, a pink and crimson fire coming from the sun that was only appearing at the horizon, a blinding half orb illuminating the world and bringing it back to life for yet another day. They witnessed the dawn in silence, breathing in unison, and Geralt made a quiet promise to Izsa, to take care of his bard and bring him joy and wonder for the rest of his life.

“I guess that’ll do it.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you have a moment and enjoyed your reading, let me know your thoughts in the comments! Thank you~


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